Disclaimer: I don't own MASH. If I did, it would've been even slashier than it already was, if that's humanly possible.

Challenge: Response to Lisa's ABC challenge: Write a fic for every letter of the alphabet.

A/N: D, death. Margaret's POV. Man, is it hard to get into her head.

Death

"We're losing him, doctor," Nurse Jenkins, acting as anesthesiologist, says to B.J.

B.J. swears and asks quickly, "Pressure? Clamp," he adds to me.

I hand him the clamp as Jenkins begins "S--" She stops before she gets the word out and then says urgently, "No pulse, doctor."

"Adrenaline," B.J. snaps and one of the other nurses rushes away. His hands move up to the chest and he begins to try and start Jacobs' heart beating again, as I supply him with air. "Jenkins?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Nothing."

We continue to try to revive him for another few seconds.

"Now?"

"Nothing."

B.J. exhales deeply. "Okay. All right." He's quiet for a moment and then, "I can't--" he begins, and then stops. He shakes his head. "Father?"

Father Mulcahy comes over and issues the last rites.

B.J. has gone back to the Swamp. I'm on my way over to…I don't know why I'm going. I just know that he's taken this hard, and Pierce isn't likely to be able to comfort him properly. Some things just require a woman's touch.

I knock on the door, and when a dejected voice mumbles "Come in," I push it open.

"I thought you might want some company," I say.

B.J. looks up from the floor. "Thanks Margaret," he says quietly.

"Where's Pierce?" I ask, suddenly noticing he's not in the tent.

"We had a…an argument, earlier," he answers, sounding completely miserable.

"Oh…The problem with Jacobs wasn't your fault," I say bluntly.

He sighs and shakes his head, looking back at the floor. "Yeah, it was," he replies. "God, I hate death." I shrug helplessly, not knowing what to say. "I'm a doctor!" he says suddenly. "I'm supposed to prevent it, not cause it!"

"You didn't." He snorts derisively. "Fine, I can see I'm not going to change your mind," I snap. Then I add, in a slightly softer tone, "If you want to talk, my door's open."

He looks up again. "Thank you Margaret," he says sincerely. I leave, closing the door gently behind me.

He doesn't seem to understand, we all hate death. And we all feel responsible at one time or another.